


Wilbur is less dead now <3

by venbel



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Dream Smp, Hurt No Comfort, I probably should have asked someone how to tag shit before posting this, Resurrection, comfort for someone cause this fandom needs some hope but i've been told it's sad, doing this before the 10th because cannon is gonna murder me, idk how tags work i am so new to this site, wilbur revival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28663770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venbel/pseuds/venbel
Summary: Its dsmp!Wilbur alive again.I am worried for the 10th heart emoji.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	Wilbur is less dead now <3

“Do it”

He was back, or maybe he never left. The room was as clean as when he had built it. When he had hollowed out the mountainside, scattered redstone and placed the button. His scribblings on the walls, and his front-row seat to a symphony unfinished, all the same. The air wasn’t as stale as all those times he had found himself standing in front of the wooden button on the wall, no there was lighting in the air. The scent of atmosphere hung heavy, and every hair on his body seemed to stand straight up. The pain was starting to set in, his heart was the first to ache, burn really. He clutched at his chest failing to ease the pain and instead inflaming every muscle used. A sensation new, awful, and all-consuming. Or perhaps it wasn’t new at all, and it had just been so long since he had felt the weight of a body, he had simply forgotten.

  
Next was his head that seemed to split. It was so loud, so bright. TNT burst beneath his feet spitting fire and debris into the air, or had doomsday come from above? Either way, it was loud, either way, he screamed at his father. His anthem rang through his ears, when it was true, when he spoke of the poignancy of the past tense and when they sang the second verse one last time. The melody in thousands of voices, even that green bastard’s. He heard his people cheer for him. He heard his friends call to him, his family cry for him. Funny how similar they all sounded. But this room was empty, and silent.  
He missed them.

  
The button was above his head, and freezing stone against his back. In the chair across from him stood a sword. A ceremonial blade, a president’s blade, narrow and sharp. It was his, even though it shone black instead of cyan. Taking a breath he prepared himself to stand. The pain of movement reignited as he pushed up against the wall, forcing his legs to carry him. The button clicked against the pressure of his back, and he fell forward into the chair. For a few bated breaths he waited.  
There was no explosion this time.

  
He took the sword as he scrambled out of the chair, his fingers tight around the hilt, but with nowhere near the strength he could have wanted. He made his way to the exit slowly, hugging the wall for the length of the corridor, periodically tripping over his own feet and shuffling dust into the air. He came to the edge, and out of habit, he almost took the step off. Almost. Beneath him, and this recreation was nothingness. There was no moon in the sky, the blackness only punctured by the pinprick light of stars.

  
With a thought, flames began to spill from the enchanted blade, and sparks of yellow light fell into the darkness beneath him. For a moment he wanted to drop the sword just to see how far it would fall. What if after all this time he had returned to the void? He sighed and unequipped it. He had to return the blade to his father.

  
Wherever he was. Phil was meant to be here with him. That was the plan, the same place, the same weapon, the same people as the last time he died. Why did he remember the plan? Ghostbur made that plan, but that wasn’t him anymore; the ghost died so he could live. Right? But he did remember, he remembered it all. He remembered all the damage he did, and the consequences. He remembered what Dream did to Tommy. How helpless he felt, watching his brother waste away. It was a painful retrospection, an understanding that came in an instant. He remembered what he did to Tommy. What he didn’t say. What he did. What he could have prevented.

At least L’Manburg was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you Zannolin for beta reading this!


End file.
